


Warping Leads to Spooning

by TempuraSteel



Series: Wind and Clarity [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV, Kingsglaive
Genre: Clarus is alarmed, M/M, Regis is a mischievous shit, The title of this should have been "Clarus is Alarmed.", Young Regis and Clarus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-15 23:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempuraSteel/pseuds/TempuraSteel
Summary: A series of short works exploring the relationship between 20-year old King Regis and his faithful, ever-exasperated Shield.  Regis is a master at warping.  Sometimes, Clarus forgets himself.  Shenanigans ensue until Regis forgets where they parked the car.  Maybe a little rain isn't such a bad thing after all?





	Warping Leads to Spooning

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I love these two young brats. I wanted to take the time to explore what their relationship might have been like. Beware of courtly speech and grossly romantic bullshit!

"Your Majesty, come down from there!"

 

Not so much as a command, but more of frustrated appeal to his better senses, of which the young king frivolously denied. Regis hoists himself higher into the branches, shoving aside tender greenery for a better view.

 

"My gods, Clarus. The view is _spectacular!"_

 

Although a good three stories below, the groan of his Shield could be heard across all of Eos.

 

"Surely the view from your quarters is just as grand!"

 

"Ah, nonsense!" Regis ventures closer to the edge of the thinning branches. "I would invite you to join me, of course, but I fear this branch could not support us both at this height. Why, even one as slight as myself tests its fortitude."

 

_"Your Majesty!"_

 

Exasperation has turned to a desperate plea for reason. Regis chuckles to himself. Has his companion forgotten his abilities? Perhaps he should test his Shield's knowledge. Or see to it that the man drops dead from a heart attack. Either scenario is equally likely.

 

Materializing a dagger before him, he palms it within his glove and steps from the edge of the branch with a flutter of his tunic. The heels of his boots have yet to meet with any significant airtime before the hilt of disassembled sword flashes mere increments from his shoulder and a strong hand grips his upper arm. The landing is far less graceful, Clarus toppling into the grass with Regis half-straddling him, the slow-fading plume of smoke from their shoulders dissipating upon the wind.

 

"See there? Nothing happened to me," Regis says with a crooked smile.

 

Clarus's scowl is an angry facade betrayed only by the widening of his eyes and perhaps, the rapid, shallow pant of his breath.

 

"Why must you do this?" the Shield growls.

 

"Honestly, Clarus. How do you think I climbed to such a height in the first place? Think for a moment, won't you?"

 

Clarus looks as if he had done quite enough thinking for one afternoon and maybe for the rest of his natural life. Regis cannot help himself. Behind the cover of one leather glove, he laughs.

 

"I see that His Majesty is intent on sending me to an early grave," Clarus says.

 

The fingers at Regis's hips tighten into a possessive dig and the young king leans down to sift his own fingers through the silken thickness of his protector's hair. Like everything else, Clarus's mane is an impressive asset.

 

"Such concern over nothing," Regis says.

 

Clarus grunts.

 

Above the canopy of the trees, the skies have begun to darken with a swift roll of clouds, an ominous rumble in the distance a warning of the impending downpour.

 

"We had best make haste," Clarus says. "Unless you wish to ruin the silk of that shirt."

 

Regis waves a hand. "You say that as if I do not have many others." He glances over his shoulder, dark hair flopping to cover one eye. "Although I confess I do not remember where I parked that blasted car."

 

"No?" Clarus's fingers knead into the fabric of his pants. "How fortunate for you that I have an excellent memory."

 

The rain pays little heed to the materials of Regis's shirt or fact that the Regalia is nearly a quarter of a mile away and by the time the two men reach the car, both are substantially more than a little damp. Ever the gentleman, Clarus sees to it that his king is safely locked away in the passenger's seat before settling himself within the confines of the car, slicking his wet locks away from his face with an irritated swipe of his hand.

 

"We might as well wait for a bit," Regis says. "No sense driving in this downpour."

 

"You'll get no complaints from me, Your Majesty." Clarus pushes the seat back and leans against the leather upholstery.

 

Regis arches an eyebrow. The thin material of Clarus's white shirt is rendered nearly transparent in these circumstances. Does the man do this sort of thing on purpose? Honestly. It is not until a familiar look of annoyance crosses Clarus's face that Regis ceases his inspection of his Shield's physique.

 

Clarus fists his hand and presses a knuckled finger beneath his nose, a damp lock of hair falling over one eye. Beside him, Regis sits up a bit straighter.

 

"Come on then, Clarus. Get on with it," Regis says, the amusement of his voice reaching his gaze.

 

"I would rather not," the other man growls between hitching breathes.

 

"It would seem you have no choice in the matter, now do you?" Regis leans back against the seat of the Regalia, the seatbelt sliding from his shoulder with a soft hiss of fabric.

 

Clarus's shoulders draw taut as his expression collapses into something far more helpless than Regis could imagine, had he not seen it for himself in this context many times. Cold, rainy weather and Clarus's sinuses simply did not agree with each other, as evidenced by the half-muffled sneeze Clarus deflects away from him into the crook of his elbow.

 

Bypassing the armrest that separates them, Regis slips closer, pressing his body against the other man, sliding his arms around the thick planes of Clarus's shoulders.

 

"Surely my Shield hasn't caught a chill," he murmurs against Clarus's ear.

 

An arm drapes his body, draws him closer. "Would it worry His Majesty if I had?"

 

"Perhaps," Regis murmurs.

 

"Well, I assure you that I am quite fine," Clarus says. "But His Majesty may have whatever he likes from me just the same."

 

Regis slides a hand down the thin material of Clarus's damp shirt, balling a handful of fabric within his fist. Beneath his attire, Clarus is a formidable giant of a man, carved of craggy muscle and heat. The young king feels a warmth of his own rising to flush his skin, the drag of Clarus's sword-roughened finger down his jaw like sandpaper upon silk.

 

"What I desire is you, my Shield." Regis's voice dips into a lower register.

 

A low rumble of appreciation ebbs from the depths of Clarus's throat as the king slips a questing hand between his thighs, fingers brushing a hint of the most intimate touch one can manage over the fast-growing bulge in Clarus's pants.

 

"If it pleases you, Your Majesty."

 

"And what of your pleasures, Clarus?" Regis all but purrs. "Surely there is something you must covet."

 

"I covet your affections," Clarus says.

 

Plainly. As if such a thing is a simple matter. Regis has hoisted himself into the other man's lap before he command a sense of decorum from his traitorous body.

 

The long length of Clarus's leg space allows for ease of movement despite the steering wheel behind him and Regis threads his fingers through the damp waves of his Shield's hair, loosening its cling from the other man's face, trailing fingers down Clarus's cheek in the wake of the movement. Such dangerous beauty. A feral thing tempered by the bonds of protective dedication, devoted to his familial duty. And judging by the softness that tempers his sharp gaze, perhaps something more.

 

Regis slips the edges of Clarus's vest from his shoulders and discards it, grasping the hem of the white tank top with eager fingers, pulling it away from his body with a wet suction of material. Beneath the thinness of the shirt, his Shield is a masterpiece of physical sin, the inked precision of his tattoo wrapping black wings around his shoulders and down the backs of his arms, the faint smattering of scars a stark contrast to his tanned skin.

 

Fingers fist the material of his shirt and drag him into a heated melding of mouths, Clarus's free hand squeezing his hip, urging him closer.

 

"Have me," Regis murmurs between the heated exchange of lips and tongues.

 

"I shall," Clarus rumbles.

 

The king strips himself of his vestments and tosses both shirt and pants into a heap of unrecognizable silk upon the passenger's seat, boots scattered upon the floorboard. It is with a somewhat comical struggle that Clarus is relieved of his own remaining items of clothing, Regis swearing when the fabric does not yield as easily as own to the pull of his fingers. Pushing the backrest of the front seat away is an easy solution and Regis takes a moment to appreciate the press of their bare bodies against each other, skin sliding against skin, hands roving with unspoken admiration over the planes of his Shield's body until the other man shivers.

 

 _"Oooh . . ."_ The sound is a sighing lilt that slips from Regis's lips before he can continue otherwise. "I do hope you are not too cold, my dearest Shield."

 

"Hmn." Clarus gives the side of his nose a slightly undignified rub with the side of his wrist before dropping his hand. "Not with His Majesty atop of me in this way."

 

"Well, then." Regis sits up a bit straighter. "Let us see if perhaps we can make you a bit warmer."

 

The console between the seats is within easy reach, the vial of oil Regis often uses to soften his hands after weapons practice a fine substitute for standard lubricant. After all, shaking hand with one's enemies requires a deceptively soft touch. The king's youthful looks in conjunction with his pale skin is an often-assumed underestimate that Regis has used to his advantage more than once.

 

He sees to it that his Shield is slickened from hilt to tip, fingers giving Clarus a wicked twist near the end of the motion so that his partner gasps aloud, fingers digging into his sides, short nails pressing into the skin. Regis takes his time, impaling himself upon Clarus's hardness with slow, torturous control that is as much for his own sake as that of his companion, whose throaty groan threatens to eclipse the distant thunder. Hands clutch his sides, rooting him firmly into place as Clarus lifts his hips with a thrust that rends a strangled gasp from Regis.

 

"Does this please you, your Majesty?" Teeth seize his earlobe and Clarus's low growl marches the length of his spine until his lithe body shudders within the capable hands of his lover.

 

"Y-yes," Regis manages.

 

Fingers grip the length of him in combination with the upward thrust of Clarus's hips, sliding in counterpoint to the base of his hardness. Regis clamps trembling fingers upon the wide berth of Clarus's shoulders, nails digging crescents into the image of inked feathers.

 

 _"Clarus . . . "_ he pants.

 

Possessive fingers squeeze and twist. "My King."

 

The careful control that holds the reigns of magical inhibition in place begin to slip with each undulation of Clarus's hips and tightly coiled surrender begins to unravel within him. In the distance, restless land rumbles and the sheeting rain increases tenfold to a pounding rhythm. Beneath him, Clarus's breathing races to a bracing pant that bleeds into something more vocal, hand splaying across the small of Regis's back with a spasming of fingers.

 

Clarus falls back against the seat of the Regalia, eyes fluttering shut, lips parting in panting heave of breath, hips urging Regis into a frenzy even through the haze of his own release. The sight of Claurs, his beloved Shield, in the throes of such a thing is more than Regis can bear. With a strangled cry, he spills himself within Clarus's capable grasp until he all but collapses atop the other man, sweat beading his brow, the slowing rhythm of Clarus's breathing lulling his own into pliant submission.

 

It is only the sound of Clarus's quiet sniffling that keeps him from losing consciousness atop the other man's body.

 

"Alright," Regis says. "Let us return to the Citadel before you truly manage to catch cold."

 

Clarus chuckles. "You speak as if I have never reacted this way to inclement weather."

 

"I know this," Regis says a bit more pridefully than he would prefer. "But I worry for you just the same each time."

 

"His Majesty is too kind." His Shield nuzzles his ear. "It is my duty to worry for you, you realize."

 

"True," Regis says. "But I am King, after all. I may worry for whomever I wish."

 

Another chuckle. "It is much appreciated, my King."

 

"Perhaps when we return to the Citadel," Regis begins with a casual flick of his wrist, "I shall show you just how much your loyalty is appreciated."

 

One eyebrow arches high, "If it pleases His Majesty, I feel certain I would enjoy the lesson."

  
The corner of Regis's mouth pulls into a knowing tease of a smirk.  "Then I shall do my best to further your education." 

 

 

_~Finis~_


End file.
